


Bees?

by RosYourBoat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 23:22:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4643925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosYourBoat/pseuds/RosYourBoat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Concerning a completely normal chase through London streets, and Sherlock's pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bees?

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my recent excavation and expunction of all of my old fics from my hard drive to an online form, where they can be held as an indelible and inescapable memento of my past obsessions. These fics are all unbeta'd and heretofore unseen by anyone but me. I hope someone else feels some of the enjoyment I received from writing them.
> 
> "Bees?" was written in October of 2012, and was inspired by Reapersun's bee pants. It is complete.

“Well, that was easy."

John puffed, face flushed with exertion, and looked over his shoulder as he wrestled the thug's arms behind his back.

“You would say that. You just stood there while I did all the work. Do we have something to tie his hands?”

“Just use his jacket,” Sherlock said indifferently, already tapping away at his cell phone to alert Lestrade of their location.

“Sherlock, that doesn't work. It's too bulky and he would just slip out of it. Oi! Shut it!” John shoved the thug's face against the ground and readjusted his grip. He looked around the empty alley for a pair of handcuffs to magically appear. “C'mon Sherlock, haven't you got anything?”

“Lestrade stole my handcuffs last week,” Sherlock scowled.

“You mean he retrieved his stolen property?” John said dryly. His back and hamstrings were starting to hurt. “Here, give me your belt.”

“My belt?” Sherlock stared incredulously. “John, don't be ridiculous.”

“Sherlock, I'm not hunching over this guy on the filthy ground until Lestrade gets here; give me your belt!”

“Why don't you use yours?”

“I'm not letting go of him, so you'd have to take if off for me. Do you really want your hands that close to my crotch?”

“Really, John!” Sherlock said disdainfully, but didn't make any move towards him.

John smirked. “Come on then.”

“John, this belt cost more than fifty pounds.”

“For God's sake, Sherlock!” John snapped, “I'm tying his hands with it, not incinerating it! You'll get it back once Lestrade and the others get here, now _give me your bloody belt!_ ” Sherlock looked mutinous but unbuckled the belt and slid it from his hips with a snap. John snatched it from him—the smooth leather was still warm from his body heat, John noticed—and wrapped the man's wrists tightly. “There. Now we can—”

John cut himself off when he heard the scuff of a footstep at the mouth of the alley. He looked up to see four men looming threateningly, approaching them with ugly expressions and clenched fists.

“You didn't keep a lookout?!” John hissed to Sherlock, unconsciously stepping in front of him and reaching for his gun. Two of the men walking toward them raised their own guns warningly. Sherlock hauled their captive to his feet and shoved past John. John's heart skipped a beat.

“Get ready to run.”

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock shoved their captive toward his fellows and whirled around, grabbing John's arm as he bolted past. John was already running without thought or strategy, that familiar mixture of fear and vicious elation making his chest tight and his legs move effortlessly. It wasn't often than they were being chased rather than doing the chasing, but emotions were much the same. Two twisting alleyways and a busy street later, he stole a glance behind and saw the men were closer than he had expected. He turned forward again, his mouth already opening to warn his flatmate, when he saw the box lying directly in their path.

Sherlock leapt over it cleanly, gazelle that he was, but John jumped a split second too late and clipped the box. He tripped forward, managed to roll off his right shoulder, and popped up to his feet, but the gang members were on him in a flash.

“Sherlock, run!” He shouted, lunging at one of the men who had a gun and digging his nails into the tendons of his gun arm and delivering a punch with his other hand. The man screamed and John tore the gun from his grasp, immediately turning to pistol whip another thug charging him. The man blocked it and tackled him to the ground. John struggled wildly, lashing out with his feet and feeling them connect with someone or something.

The sound of sirens pierced the air. Two of the gang members froze and fled. John shoved at the man over him with a grunt, aiming a punch at his ribs. He squawked and rolled off with a curse when he heard the screech of police car tyres nearby. John sat up, heart beating wildly, just in time to see the last thug desperately lunge at Sherlock. John tackled him, but the man's hands managed to grab Sherlock's fine wool trousers on the way down.

Sherlock bellowed and John looked up, terrified that he'd been too late.

He blinked. And stared.

White cotton y-fronts, surprisingly small and slung low around his hips, and a yellow-and-black striped oval screen-printed across the soft bulge of his—

_Is that a bee?_

“JOHN!” Sherlock bawled in his ear, sounding scandalized, and his split-second view vanished as Sherlock bent to yank his trousers from the death-grip of the gang member cursing and writhing beneath John's body. Police officers were swarming around them, shouting at the criminals and at each other while they cleared the scene. John started from his reverie and passed the man he was sitting on off to an officer. Sherlock finally managed to wrest his trousers free and pull them up his pale thighs.

“Alright there, Sherlock? John?” Lestrade called from his squad car. John waved at him.

“Did Watson manage to save your womanly virtue?” Donovan said with a grin as she passed. They didn't seem to have seen Sherlock's pants.

“Congratulations, Sally, I hadn't thought you knew what womanly virtue looked like anymore,” Sherlock shot back snidely.

“Sherlock,” John warned, though he was hiding a smile. Sherlock's face was flushed, just as likely from exertion as embarrassment, and he was still clutching his trousers around his hips.

“This wouldn't have happened if you didn't use my belt to tie up some low-life in an alley,” Sherlock hissed. John threw his hands up.

“This wouldn't have happened if you just asked Greg properly for some handcuffs! Besides which, if you'd been keeping watch like you were supposed to be—”

“Oh, don't be so dramatic—”

“Ladies, ladies, not in front of the children,” Lestrade said, leaning against his patrol car with his arms crossed and grinning like a fool, the bastard. Sherlock and John turned on him in concert.

“Oh, piss off, Lestrade!”

“Oi, piss off, Lestrade!” They said in unison. They looked back at each other for a long moment before John broke out into giggles, almost drowning out Sherlock's low chuckle.

“Get a room, you two.” Lestrade tossed Sherlock his rolled-up belt, still grinning. John flipped him two fingers and Sherlock caught the belt with a glare before threading it through his belt loops.

“These trousers are ruined! The button's been torn off and the waist hems are ripped,” Sherlock growled under his breath. John shook his head. Ponce.

“You'll survive. Are you hurt anywhere?”

“John, I am more than accomplished in many forms of hand-to-hand combat; I'm fine. You should be more worried about that shoulder you rolled on or the cuts on your knuckles.” John scoffed, but before he could reply Lestrade waved over a paramedic to check John over and he could only endure it with a faint scowl.

* * *

 

Two days later, he was doing laundry. He sorted out lights and darks, noting that Sherlock's t-shirts and sleeping trousers had made their way into his basket again. A flash of white and yellow made him pause. He really shouldn't look too closely at Sherlock's personal things, but honestly, he had put it in with John's things, hadn't he? It's only natural that John might see. In fact, it was likely that he put them in John's laundry for a very specific reason.

His mind lingered on that thought as he snagged the hem of—yes, they were the same pants he had glimpsed two days ago. He couldn't help matching the grin of the cheery bee on the fabric. He'd see precisely what Sherlock had to say about this.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked my writing? You might like my Tumblr. rosyourboat.tumblr.com


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